Only the Sun
by Duchess Winna
Summary: Remus knows that it has to end, but he doesn't know what to say to Tonks. One-shot.


**Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns these characters; I do not.**

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"Why are you doing this?" she asks him, because she has put together all of those jagged, bloody pieces that nobody ever wants to have to connect, since the only reality that they will point to is one that they do not want to face.

It's a question with a thousand answers, a million, true and false, selfish and selfless. He isn't sure which one to pick, all of them racing through his mind like fireworks.

_Because I need some space._ It's such a typical reason, so reminiscent of Hogwarts, that the thought of almost makes him smile, but he's far too miserable. It is true, in a sense, but not in the way the words would sound falling off of his tongue, and he bites it down. She deserves better than this.

_Because sometimes, I look at you and I wonder what I'm doing here._ This is true, in a certain way, though she would certainly interpret it differently. He looks at her and he wonders what he's ever done to deserve anything that brings him this much happiness, when the best people he's known are lying under the ground or drifting somewhere through a veil, and he can't stand the guilt, that stems from his own desire to settle down. To have what James had, and retain it.

But he can't, he tells himself, because he's not James or Sirius or Frank Longbottom or Gideon Prewett or any of those other martyrs, he isn't a hero and never has been. His mind drifts back to that time, long ago, too long repressed, the first time he ever faced Death Eaters. He was dueling one of those faceless men, enduring their taunts, and suddenly he realized that they were closing in on him. Glancing around, he saw that James and Sirius and Peter were preoccupied, and all his instincts were screeching at him to run, and he almost did. His legs were a second away from bolting, before his three best, wonderful, supportive, brave, _Gryffindor_ friends came to his aid, blazing through the Death Eaters to rescue him.

He thought about it for nights afterward, and always thought the same thing: _Would I have done the same for them?_ And for the longest time, he couldn't answer. But he never felt as much of a hero, after that.

Why should he be the one to deserve the marriage, the life that none of the others achieved, at least not for a length of time?

_Because I'm an idiot._ It's true. Before, though, when he was an idiot, James and Sirius and Peter would be there to bludgeon some sense into him, but now James and Sirius and Peter are gone, dead or as good as.

_Because I'm not looking for anything serious._ Again, another Hogwarts-style clichéd line that he almost immediately rejects, only partially because it is so blatantly false. He _yearns_ for something serious, something monumental, but he cannot bring himself to accept it when it comes. That's his curse, always to want, never to accept, even when it's right there in front of him.

_Because I know what it's like to lose someone…I've felt it over and over and over. I can't feel that way again._ This is what it all comes down to, doesn't it? The loss, or the fear of it. He's already so irreparably attached to her that he cannot risk becoming any more connected, or any loss – he cannot make himself think the word _death_ – would tear him apart. Right now, he thinks, he could probably stagger through some kind of tragedy – but one day more and it would be too late.

He doesn't say it, though, can't. Because he knows what her answer will be, just as certainly as he knows that she's beautiful when she smiles. She will tell him that he's wrong, that this time they have together is a blessing and it would be foolish to throw it all away. And he's afraid that she will convince him, and this wonderful, beautiful, thing will continue, and for days, weeks, months all will be well. And then, like always, there will be a messenger, perhaps Kingsley or Alastor, with a face filled with too much sadness, too much regret, perhaps even guilt that they are not the ones who have suffered such profound loss. _This is the way it always is_, he thinks. _To think otherwise is to delude yourself._

And it's true, isn't it? He bitterly remembers who he used to be, that boy at Hogwarts who thought that he and his friends would somehow survive this war, inexplicably. Who hoped, who dreamed. Who didn't feel guilty about either of these things. That boy has been lost for so many years, turned into a jaded, prematurely aged man, but…

…lately, he's found him again. And that scares the shit out of him, more than anything else.

Instead, he picks the answer that no one will like, not his dead friends or his living girlfriend or even himself, _I'm not good enough for you, you know that. I'm a danger to everyone around me._ It's what he's been told over and over, by people he thought could have been his friends, coworkers, bosses, that he isn't good enough, and he's loathe to agree with them. But it's the only excuse that will really work, and he tries his hardest to drain himself of emotion as he tells her the words that will crush her, and forces himself to watch, for to look away would be to plant seeds of doubt. He wants to apologize, to say something that will dull the words, but cannot. He takes one last look at her, before nodding briskly and racing away, before his instincts force him to stay and apologize, make up, forget it ever happened.

It doesn't feel like summer, which is terribly fitting. It would be strange to feel so empty inside and then walk out the door and be filled with warmth. Once he's out of her vision, he glances back to her house, hoping that she'll be all right. _She will be, she's young, she has her whole life to find someone else_, he tells himself. _Someone who won't be a danger to her, who deserves someone like her. Someone who would never even consider leaving her, not even for her own good._

He tries not to think about the other connotations of this idea: _Someone who won't find himself torn apart if ever anything happens to her. Someone who doesn't make her smile so much that a dimple appears in her cheek, that she has said is the only person that has such an effect on her._

To his intense surprise, he actually wants to transform, because when he's a werewolf, he leaves it all behind. Really, the physical pain would be preferable to the anguish he's feeling now. His heart is beating too quickly, drumbeats in his chest, and he feels numb inside, like everything of value has been drained out of him.

And it has, hasn't it? He's not the same person that James and Sirius and hell, Peter, too, considered one of their best friends. He's become someone terribly ashamed of himself, who hurts others in that quest for psychological self-mutilation. And he hates that, but there's no way to change it. Not when he's human, at any rate.

Things change, when he's a werewolf. Things like eating, drinking, fighting, these become priorities. Problems like the death of friends, loved ones, a painful separation, these would become secondary. They would still burn, make him howl with the agony, but instincts would always come first. And although he never entirely forgets his identity in that state, sometimes he comes close.

Usually, it's a curse, to almost forget who he is. Now, he would welcome it, dissociating himself with his problems, with his guilt, with his terrible sense that he has lost all of his self-worth.

He's only felt like this once before, when James and Lily died and Sirius was branded a traitor, and just like then he wishes fervently for the full moon to glide over the cityscape and make him into a monster.

The moon isn't here for him now, just as it wasn't there for him then. All he has is the sun, muted but visible, and he wonders what that could possibly offer him.


End file.
